the far end of the counter, then pointed out the three red lace-trimmed items arranged on the middle shelf of the glass-topped showcase.
The minute I saw the outrageously bright and naughty see-through undergarments, I knew Abby would love them. (And get a lot of use out of them, too.) “How much for the whole trio?” I asked.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “The set just went on sale this morning. It was originally priced at nine dollars and ninety-four cents, but now it’s just seven eighty-five.”
I gulped. That was a whole lot more than I paid for underwear from the Sears Roebuck catalog. And I felt a little funny even considering buying Abby such an expensive and intimate gift. Still, I knew she would go wild for the lacy red stuff, and I wanted to give her something really nice and uplifting. (That’s not a dumb bra joke, I swear! I meant as nice and uplifting as the free cocktails Abby was always giving me.)
“Can I pay by check?” I asked. I knew without looking I didn’t have that much cash in my wallet. I never had that much cash in my wallet. I did have that much money in my checking account, though—plus a whole four dollars and fifteen cents more.
“Do you have any identification?”
“Yes . . . a Social Security card and a driver’s license.” (When Bob and I ran away to New York and got married, we both took the New York State driver’s test even though we didn’t have a car. We wanted to prepare ourselves for our undoubtedly glorious future, when Bob would return from Korea, and get a good job, and we’d buy a little house in Levittown on the GI bill, and then get ourselves a brand spanking new two-toned Ford convertible. So much for planning ahead. Instead of a car without a top, I got a life without a husband.)
“That’ll be fine,” the salesgirl said, taking a box from the shelf behind the counter and lining it with tissue paper. “Now, what size brassiere does your friend wear?”
“34C,” I said, with certainty. I knew the size because Abby bragged about it at every opportunity. She also boasted about her waist and hip measurements (23 inches and 35 inches respectively), which I gave to the salesgirl to help her choose the right size panties and garter belt. Then, as she was selecting the flimsy undergarments, arranging them in the box, and writing up the sales slip, I sneakily launched my investigation.
“A good friend of mine used to work in this department,” I said. “Her name was Judy Catcher. Did you know her?”
The girl gasped and stopped what she was doing. She raised her head and gave me a look that teetered between shock and sorrow. “Judy? You were a friend of Judy’s?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said. “We used to live in the same neighborhood.” I felt bad about lying to this perfectly nice and innocent-looking person, but I was, after all, working on a murder story, and I knew from past experience that the fewer people who knew my true identity and occupation, the better off (i.e., safer ) I would be.
“But you do know she’s dead, don’t you?” the girl inquired. Her hoarse voice crackled with deep concern. “It was in the papers and everything.”
“Yes, don’t worry. I know all about it . . . I’m not going to start crying and cause a scene or anything.”
The girl relaxed somewhat, and as she did, her own eyes—her incredibly large and luminous green eyes—welled up with tears. One drop fell out and landed on the tissue paper with a crinkly splat.
There were lots of customers at the lingerie counter now—impatient, irritable shoppers scrambling to make their last-minute purchases before closing time. A surprising number of them were men. They looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, but utterly determined to get what they came for. I hadn’t realized that sexy underwear was such a must-have Christmas item. That seemed a little bizarre to me. (Unless, of course, the customers were all acquaintances of Abby’s.)
“Are you
The minute I saw the outrageously bright and naughty see-through undergarments, I knew Abby would love them. (And get a lot of use out of them, too.) “How much for the whole trio?” I asked.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “The set just went on sale this morning. It was originally priced at nine dollars and ninety-four cents, but now it’s just seven eighty-five.”
I gulped. That was a whole lot more than I paid for underwear from the Sears Roebuck catalog. And I felt a little funny even considering buying Abby such an expensive and intimate gift. Still, I knew she would go wild for the lacy red stuff, and I wanted to give her something really nice and uplifting. (That’s not a dumb bra joke, I swear! I meant as nice and uplifting as the free cocktails Abby was always giving me.)
“Can I pay by check?” I asked. I knew without looking I didn’t have that much cash in my wallet. I never had that much cash in my wallet. I did have that much money in my checking account, though—plus a whole four dollars and fifteen cents more.
“Do you have any identification?”
“Yes . . . a Social Security card and a driver’s license.” (When Bob and I ran away to New York and got married, we both took the New York State driver’s test even though we didn’t have a car. We wanted to prepare ourselves for our undoubtedly glorious future, when Bob would return from Korea, and get a good job, and we’d buy a little house in Levittown on the GI bill, and then get ourselves a brand spanking new two-toned Ford convertible. So much for planning ahead. Instead of a car without a top, I got a life without a husband.)
“That’ll be fine,” the salesgirl said, taking a box from the shelf behind the counter and lining it with tissue paper. “Now, what size brassiere does your friend wear?”
“34C,” I said, with certainty. I knew the size because Abby bragged about it at every opportunity. She also boasted about her waist and hip measurements (23 inches and 35 inches respectively), which I gave to the salesgirl to help her choose the right size panties and garter belt. Then, as she was selecting the flimsy undergarments, arranging them in the box, and writing up the sales slip, I sneakily launched my investigation.
“A good friend of mine used to work in this department,” I said. “Her name was Judy Catcher. Did you know her?”
The girl gasped and stopped what she was doing. She raised her head and gave me a look that teetered between shock and sorrow. “Judy? You were a friend of Judy’s?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said. “We used to live in the same neighborhood.” I felt bad about lying to this perfectly nice and innocent-looking person, but I was, after all, working on a murder story, and I knew from past experience that the fewer people who knew my true identity and occupation, the better off (i.e., safer ) I would be.
“But you do know she’s dead, don’t you?” the girl inquired. Her hoarse voice crackled with deep concern. “It was in the papers and everything.”
“Yes, don’t worry. I know all about it . . . I’m not going to start crying and cause a scene or anything.”
The girl relaxed somewhat, and as she did, her own eyes—her incredibly large and luminous green eyes—welled up with tears. One drop fell out and landed on the tissue paper with a crinkly splat.
There were lots of customers at the lingerie counter now—impatient, irritable shoppers scrambling to make their last-minute purchases before closing time. A surprising number of them were men. They looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, but utterly determined to get what they came for. I hadn’t realized that sexy underwear was such a must-have Christmas item. That seemed a little bizarre to me. (Unless, of course, the customers were all acquaintances of Abby’s.)
“Are you
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